


Duemila Volte (Two Thousand Times)

by heavensfallingaroundus



Category: Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Infidelity, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Reunions, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 02:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21245741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: Taron struggles with long distance.Richard is, once again, somewhat of a dick.





	Duemila Volte (Two Thousand Times)

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, hello.
> 
> It's that time again. You know the one. The time when I become obsessed with one song, can't stop listening to it for days on end, end up mulling over the lyrics in my head, and end up telling myself "ooh, this sure does sound a whole lot like Taron and Richard!".
> 
> So, yeah, here we are.
> 
> I'd like to partially (or fully, actually) blame [drinkingstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkingstars/pseuds/drinkingstars%E2%80%9D%20rel=) for letting me into my Madderton feelings.  
I then unavoidably spiralled, thinking of the whole cornucopia of tin foil hat theories I have about their relationship (which you may or may not want to hear about), and I started listening to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kvbF8sgpk8M%E2%80%9D%20rel=)—and it went all downhill from that, really.
> 
> Please enjoy an unbeta-ed, barely edited, completely self-indulgent, and nonsensical stream of consciousness that, once again—as always—I'm almost sure sucks.
> 
> But whatever. I needed a break from the madness.
> 
> P.S.: please still go read [the aforementioned madness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20419271/chapters/48439637%E2%80%9D%20rel=), though, because it's truly and completely driving me insane.
> 
> Peace out.

_ I’d like to try and draw your face _

_ But it’s like pulling a sword from a stone _

_ I’d like to try and live in your eyes _

_ To dream until we’re tired _

Taron is in his bed, alone, while Richard is God knows where on the goddamned other side of the goddamned world. It's been so long since they last saw each other, that it's become difficult to even picture what his face looks like.

Taron wishes he was one of those people who can draw, sometimes—because pap shoots and the less and less frequent FaceTime calls are starting to simply not do it for him.

He wants to know exactly what shade of blue Richard's eyes are, to be able to replicate them on a canvas.

And then he wants to quit the real world, and take a dip into that infinite sea, and dream that Richard is swimming there with him.

Richard is in LA, and Taron is lonely.

He doesn't know if they can survive this.

_ I’d like to find the dawn in this bed _

_ When we’re back home at six _

_ You look at me and you tell me that you want _

_ Another cigarette _

_ A perfect life _

_ That you want my T-shirt _

Taron wants to wake up in Richard's bed every day of his life.

It's 1 PM, and it's not even remotely late enough.

They got back at 6 AM, and Richard _ flat-out refused _ to go to bed straight away.

"Another wee one?" he'd said, dangling his pack of smokes in front of Taron's eyes. As if they hadn't had enough at the club, already.

But London was weirdly warm, in the first hours of the day, and there's a comfy couch on Richard's balcony—and Taron actually _ did _ fancy another cigarette. Hadn't smoked in a full month, and then look at him.

They cuddled and kissed, drunkenly declaring their undying love for each other, and laughing and laughing, and laughing a tad more still. Moments like those were truly everything Taron had wished this weekend would bring.

Shame they couldn’t last forever.

"I like your shirt, T," Richard had said, gesturing at the dark green number Taron was sporting. "I want it. Off of you, I mean,” he’d doubled down, a wicked tone in his silky brogue. “Then again, I do actually really like it. Seriously considering stealing it," he’d said, taking Taron's lower lip between his teeth.

Then Richard pressed him against the glass window of his penthouse apartment, and it was wonderful.

Then Richard threw him on the bed, and covered Taron’s body with his, and it was wonderful.

Then Richard ran his fingers and his mouth and his cock in all the right places, and he made him come four times before they both finally closed their eyes—and Taron was spent, full, satisfied, and in love.

And it was wonderful.

He wants this. All the time. He wants this _ perfect life _ with Richard. He really, _ really _ does.

But Richard is flying back at 4 P.M., and he leaves for the airport when Taron is still lying on that huge, empty bed, fighting against the relentless sleepiness that is to blame on the irresponsible bedtime, alcohol, and way too much sex.

Richard kisses him goodbye. Tells him he loves him, and that he can stay in the apartment as long as he likes.

Taron always cries, when Richard sets off.

He's _ left _ there, surrounded by Richard's belongings, his scent, his _ presence _—and it's just unbearable. He always makes a point of leaving as fast as he can, when Richard is gone. Wonders why on earth the man still keeps the London apartment at all, some days.

His green T-shirt is gone, so he borrows a black one from Richard's closet.

Armani.

For fuck's sake—it smells like him.

_ I need to lose you _

_ To come and find you _

_ Two thousand times more _

_ Even if now you’re far away _

Taron lands at LAX in the late afternoon. It's boiling on the tarmac—and how fitting, since he suspects that sweltering heat will be a leitmotif for this trip.

The heat is in the air as much as it’s spreading throughout Taron’s whole body when he spots the fleeting streak of silver hair amidst the crowd of people waiting at the arrivals gate.

Richard looks tanned and relaxed and _ happy_—how _ dare _ he—and he smells like something new as he pulls Taron into a tight embrace. Taron desperately wishes he could kiss him, so to check whether he even _ tastes _ different.

He can't. 

The shirt he's wearing is also new. It's dark grey, and it has flowers on it, and it's _ definitely _ not Richard's style. Still suits him—because really the man could wear a fucking _ bin bag _ and still look ravishing—but it's definitely not _ his _.

And then Richard sits him down in his ridiculously fast car, and gives him the talk.

He’s met someone, see.

Someone American.

Someone who’s twenty-five years old, and who’s also an actor.

Someone who’s... moving in with him? _ Really _?

For the whole ride to Richard’s apartment, Brandon is just a friend.

As soon as they get through the door, Brandon is Richard’s lover.

He kisses Richard’s lips, long and deep, and it’s like someone is punching Taron square in the gut.

When they part, Richard gives Taron an apologetic but not remorseful look.

Taron gazes at the pair of them. Puts on a fake smile, says he’s very happy they’re happy. He delivers the line like it's no big deal, like his heart is not bleeding. He’s a good actor, indeed.

Then, Taron turns his suitcase around in the entrance hall and he walks off. Without saying goodbye. 

Richard doesn’t even try and run after him.

_ I’d like to try not to love your face _

_ But it’s like not bringing people to a party _

_ It takes too long, and we believe in rushing things _

_ We look for flights to go to London _

Sitting in a way too expensive hotel room in Beverly Hills, Taron looks at the sunshine through the window, as some unknown song is playing on the radio. There’s piano, and there’s a ringing voice—and it’s not Elton, unfortunately. But Taron likes it. Gives him weird clarity.

He hates Richard, right now. Hates how weak the man was—how weak he _ still _ is.

How love, when it comes to Richard Madden, really is all or nothing.

How, eight months ago, they _ rushed _ into each other’s arms. How quickly they clicked together—like the two halves of a single being. Like they were separated at some point in the past, and they finally found each other again. Like in Plato’s _ Symposium_. Like it was meant to be.

And then how everything was shattered, because Richard was unable to spend even just two months away from Taron before he fell into the arms of someone new. Long-distance relationships rarely work, anyway—but this must really be a new _ bloody _ record.

As Taron fires up his laptop and looks for a flight back to London, he has a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. It’s anger, it’s heartache, it’s dread—but it’s also something else.

He’s going home now, but he knows he’ll be back.

Or Richard will be.

Two thousand times over, they will be back into each other’s arms.

_ I need to forgive you _

_ To be able to touch you _

_ Even just for one night _

_ Even if we’re alone _

_ Like water on Mars _

Someone knocks on Taron’s door on a Friday morning, four weeks later.

Taron ignores them. He’s in bed with a pounding headache—courtesy of that one vodka martini too many—and he doesn’t want to see anyone.

The person behind the thick mahogany panel seems to be relentless, though. The actual doorbell goes off, and it doesn’t stop. Once, twice, six times.

Won’t they leave him the _ fuck _ alone?

And then it’s Taron’s phone buzzing, on his nightstand. It’s informing him that _ Richard _, of all people, has something important to tell him.

Richard is one of those people who’ll tell you that, and then make you wait a few long, agonising _ hours _before he gets to sit you down and tell you what the fuck’s really happening. In person.

When Taron picks up the phone, however, Richard says it all at once.

“I’m so fucking sorry, love.”

It’s not exactly a _ speech_—only five words—but Taron grasps every single nuance inside each of them. And knows he needs to get up and go open his front door.

He doesn’t jump inside Richard’s arms like he normally does.

He can’t touch him. He hasn’t forgiven him, yet.

They just stand there, then, scrutinising each other for a while. It’s been four weeks since Taron last saw his face, and for a second it's weird to just find himself looking at him again. In that moment they’re together, but they’re also very alone. Each of them in his shell, not daring to break out of it.

Richard, Taron can’t help but think, looks like _ London _ again. He’s wearing dark jeans, a black suede jacket, one of his James Dean white tees, and dark grey boots.

He’s _magnificent_. That hurts, for some reason.

Come to think of it, Taron is not sure _ how _ he’s seeing all that—since Richard is holding the biggest bouquet of red roses Taron’s ever seen.

“Richard.”

“Taron. I’m a dick.”

“Quite literally.”

“I’m so sorry. I love you.”

_ I love you too. _

“Are you back?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m back.”

Silence falls, for a while.

Then Taron closes the door, leaving Richard outside.

_ We could stay silent for a while _

_ While it burns slow _

Taron doesn’t know what to say or do. His head is heavy with leftover alcohol, confusion, and _ Richard_.

So he tries not to think about any of it, and he does what he always does when he needs to take his mind off things—he starts cleaning his apartment.

When he’s done, he resolves he might as well clean himself, too. The water in the shower is scorching, like the hot wave of memories that come flooding back. They’re painful, but they’re addictive.

He knows he’s already lost the fight, but admitting defeat is sweeter than he’d imagined.

He’s still in his bathrobe when he goes back to the door. There’s a peephole, and he looks through it.

Richard is sitting on the floor with his head between his hands, the roses discarded on the right side of him.

Taron smiles to himself at the sight, and he unlocks the door.

At each turn of the key in the lock, he feels the tension mount.

It’s terrifying, letting Richard back into his life, but he can’t really help himself. It's like his fingers on the lock are working on their own accord.

By the time the door swings open, Richard is back on his feet already. The look on his face is different, now. _ Hopeful_.

“How long have you been sitting there?”

Richard looks at his fuck-off Longines timepiece. Classic.

“Three hours.”

A voice in Taron’s head tells him it’s not enough, that he should make him wait two bloody _ months _, if this has to be fair—but Taron has already made an executive decision, no matter how dumb it might seem.

Love is irrational, after all.

“Are you really back?”

“Aye. I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”

“Don’t you _ dare _ do that to me ever again.”

Richard takes a step over the threshold. Taron finds that the inconceivable blue of his eyes is veiled with an unmistakeable hue of fear and remorse.

He sees how _genuine_ the man is—so he nods, giving him permission.

Richard kisses him.

Taron closes his eyes, and he feels whole again.

And it’s wonderful.

_ And we could stop thinking about it _

_ We might even let go of our fears _

_ We could close our eyes and jump _

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed whatever the _heck_ this was.
> 
> Yes, I'm Italian. Yes, sometimes I enjoy a bit of Italian pop (Marco has my whole heart). And yes, I translated the lyrics for you, because I needed to share the feels.
> 
> See you on Tuesday, back on the Jamie Bell train once more.
> 
> Love,
> 
> C x


End file.
